I didn’t buy Bergdorf Blondes. It was dropped off at my apartment by a friend, with a note that read:
Cheer up. Stop wallowing. Call me.
PS: no more Gilmore Girls reruns, seriously.
It was the summer of 2005. I was fresh off the heels of a bad breakup. To say I was wallowing in self-pity was generous. I was drowning in it. My summer job had ended and school hadn’t yet begun, so I was free to spend my days in sweatpants on my couch, watching bad television.
I’m really not one for this kind of thing. Truly, I’m not. Ordinarily, I would have recoiled from a perky Tiffany-blue cover emblazoned with a gigantic pink diamond ring. I would have never made it past the first line: “Bergdorf Blondes are a thing you know, a New York craze. Absolutely everyone wants to be one, but it’s actually tres difficult…” If I wanted to read a social comedy, I would pick up Emma orVile Bodies, thank you very much. But I was in a weakened state. I was watching six episodes ofGilmore Girls a day. Culturally speaking, I had nowhere to go but up.